


Grief Is Love With No Place To Go

by NeverLane



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Gen, Hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24169276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverLane/pseuds/NeverLane
Summary: Merlin dies and Arthur grieves
Comments: 1
Kudos: 33





	Grief Is Love With No Place To Go

**Author's Note:**

> This is either a one shot or a wip, only my painfully absent work ethic will be able to tell.  
> -Title is a quote from Jaime Anderson

Arthur delivered a death that was far too quick for the crime before whirling around and taking in the form of his crumpled manservant. He resembled a puppet whose strings had been cut, his legs were curled up beneath him in an uncomfortable heap and his hands shook as they hovered over his stomach. Arthur found himself on his knees beside him before his brain had time to process his movement. He stared at the red stain that was rapidly blooming across his torso, soaking into the fabric of the tunic fiber by fiber. Merlin made a small gut-wrenching whimper which pulled Arthur back into action. He pulled him gently into his lap one hand going to cover the gaping hole on his front while the other found more of the cursed liquid on his back. Merlin had been run straight through, the sword had cleaved through his back and continued on rending and tearing until it had emerged from his front. Somewhere deep down Arthur knew that this was a fatal wound, no amount of medicine would heal this, no amount of praying or pleading would keep Merlin breathing. In his current state however, this information refused to register. 

Once he had Merlin settled, head in his lap, he began carding his fingers through the raven locks. Arthur would be lying if he said he had never imagined running his fingers through Merlin’s hair, but not like this, never like this. Arthur tried to catch Merlin’s gaze but so far his eyes had been glazed, not showing any signs of coherency or recognition. Merlin’s breath hitched and his eyes seemed to clear as he finally found Arthur’s gaze. “Arthur?” he slurred, “Yes, Idiot it’s me, what have you done to yourself” Arthur said, unwilling to give up their familiar snarky back and forth. Doing so would be an admittance of the inevitable which he was still refusing to accept. This thinly constructed façade fell as soon as Merlin spoke again, his words stuttering between sharp pained breaths, “I…I don’t want to leave, please don’t make me go”. Arthur felt this plea like a punch to the stomach, he had never heard his manservant sound so small. Yes, the boy himself was physically small, many would claim frail but despite his visually weak build he had always carried himself with a certain weight, a weight that flowed through his voice lending it an air of authority and strength.

“You don’t have to go. You can stay right here, you just have to hold on” Arthur responded, his own voice shaking. Merlin seemed to find some small shred of strength within him but it flared as panic. He brought one hand up to Arthurs chest, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth metal of his armor. “I want…want to stay with you” Merlin continued, terror leaking from his eyes. Arthur used his free hand to grab Merlin’s, squeezing it tightly, a feeble attempt at anchoring the boy to life. “I know, I know. You can, just don’t let go. Don’t give up. Please Merlin I want you to stay too. I need you.” The final statement in his litany of pleas stalled him. He needed Merlin, life without him was unthinkable, unknowable, unnatural. He pulled Merlin tighter against him as he whispered, “Don’t leave me”. As soon as the words had passed his lips Merlin’s eyes fluttered closed. Arthur started and shook the boy slightly, “No. Merlin, no. Open your eyes, you have to keep your eyes open”. 

He was met with silence and stillness, save for the unsteady fall and rise of his chest. He pulled him in, so his back was leant against Arthur’s chest. He wrapped his arms around him and clutched desperately as the boy faded. His fingers twisted into Merlin’s tunic as if his white knuckled grip alone could keep him tethered to this world. He began to rock them slowly back and forth as breaths shallowed and became less frequent, each one battling its way out of his slowly failing lungs. He rested his chin on Merlin’s shoulder, cheek pressed to cheek. Merlin drew in a long stuttering breath and stubbornly refused to draw another. Arthur stilled his rocking and loosed one hand from its death grip to reach for his slim wrist, pushing two fingers against it searching for a pulse he knew in his heart he would not find. When his fingers were met with the deafening stillness, he turned his face into Merlin’s hair, allowing the feathered ebony to muffle the sobs he had previously refused to allow past his lips. Arthur wasn’t sure how long he sat there letting his tears spill freely, but once he had none left, he continued to sit. He sat until the cold had numbed him through his trousers. He sat until Merlin had chilled, his skin now icy to the touch, lips a horrible purple blue. 

Arthur’s hands twitched as he was overcome with the sudden urge to lunge forward and tear through the rocks and dirt until he reached Merlin and could pull him to safety. He wouldn’t be able to breath down there with all of that soil piled on top of him, he’d panic and fight and claw. But he didn’t need to breathe, he was dead. There would be no panicking, no fighting, no clawing, at least not on the part of the man buried unfairly beneath the ground at Arthur’s feet. 

“Arthur, where is he?” Gwaine repeated, the anger and denial already creeping into his voice. Unable to answer, Arthur simply fell to his knees letting the cold of the courtyard stones seep through his trousers. Lancelot crouched down in front of him, his hands coming to rest on his shoulders. “Arthur, what happ…” his voice trailed off as he finally took in the state of his king’s clothing and hands. Both were covered in blood now dried and flaking at every movement. His hoarse “no” was enough to inform the knights behind him of exactly what had happened. Gwaine simply stalked off, no one said a word to stop him. Lancelots hand’s fell from Arthur’s shoulders, instead reaching for the steadying presence of the ground as he leaned back on his heels, shock settling deep into his bones. 

Arthur took a deep breath and got shakily to his feet as he proclaimed, “I need to inform Gaius”, he turned to do just that but stopped short when he was met with Gwen’s tear stained face. She had come to give the knights food for the patrol but had instead stumbled upon the site before her, putting two and two together with sickening ease. She let out a haggard breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and flung her arm out for an anchor. Normally the job would have fallen to Lancelot, but he was still knelt on the cobblestone staring intently at the ground. Instead it was Percival who snaked is own arm out and caught hers, steadying the rapidly crumbling woman, if only slightly. 

Despite what Merlin so adamantly argued, Arthur did know how to dress himself. It was simply customary that a servant perform the task for him. After a while it had become one of his favorite moments in the day, the way Merlin’s fingers would dance over his skin, tying laces with deft movements. The way he would run his hands down Arthur’s body, smoothing out any wrinkles. The way he would gently tug and fold at the clothing until Arthur looked every bit like the king Merlin had believed him to be. Had, had because he would never perform the simple task again. He would never straighten Arthur’s belt or pull on his collar until the layers of fabric sat comfortably around his neck. He would never step back arms crossed, one hand stroking his chin in thought as he appraised Arthur. He would never light up the room with his goofy self-satisfied smile when he finally decided that Arthur was ready to face the day. His eyes would never shine with that nearly unbearable pride he held for him, because they along with the rest of him was buried in the ground beside a lake a few leagues outside the city. 

Telling Hunith that Merlin was dead, that her son was dead, would prove to be one of the hardest things he had done to date. Arthur’s heart had fractured when Merlin had taken his last breath, it had cracked even more when the last stone had been placed over his grave. Despite the fact that he hadn’t overtly told Gwen, the look on her face had broken his heart even further, something he hadn’t thought possible. This would take whatever was left and crush it mercilessly underfoot. 

He was flanked by Leon, Elyan and Percival. Gwaine was holed up in the tavern and Lancelot was holed up with Gwen. Arthur desperately wished he could down ale after ale until the pain he felt was but a hazy memory. He desperately wished he could be carried away by someone’s touch, allowing lust to chase away the despair. But he was the King of Camelot and he had made Merlin a promise. He had already failed him once, it would not happen again. 

He stared at the familiar piece of cloth before proffering it to her. She grasped it white knuckled in her fist and gazed up into his eyes. Hoping and pleading that he would take back his unsaid words and say it was all a cruel joke, and Merlin would pop out from behind some corner, and she would cuff his ear for nearly giving her a heart attack, and his shoulders would find his ears, and he’d get that look like a cowed dog, and she’d pull him into a crushing hug, and they’d all go inside and sit around the table and, and, and. She let out a gut wrenching sob, one that Arthur knew would dance through his nightmares forever, right alongside the image of Merlin’s bloodied form slumped on the dirt as the life leaked out of him.


End file.
